Com Confessions
by Iwilo
Summary: Fyve has something to get off his chest while he waits for the Alliance to attack Wintergrasp.
1. Chapter 1

I gave this short an "M" rating for the sake of safety. There are sexual references but they're not extremely graphic. Also, language. Fyve puts fucking pirates to shame.

* * *

Wintergrasp Fortress. With its majestic towers and ornate stone and metal constructions to rival even the most glowing and flamboyant architectural nightmares of Silvermoon, it seems a shame to be wasted on such a harsh climate as the ever-frozen region of Wintergrasp. Even the massive gun turrets that adorn the many towers are inlaid with decoration. Some might consider it ostentatious, over-the-top with so much gold that it nearly resembles something that belongs on a princess's wedding cake. It is.

As stunning as it is, the shining fortress is nearly (some would say "clearly") repugnant in the way it dominates the massive, frozen lake; the lake broken into smaller ponds by equally garish bridges and islands of snowy land with the only the hardiest species of trees, though surprisingly plentiful, to offer any cover. The regular inhabitants are as temperamental as the intemperate weather. While the land sees many visitors, the only that are inclined to remain permanently are the creatures commonly known as Elementals. There are several types of Elemental, the most common being those formed of and named for shadow, air and water. Rarer are the fire Elementals, which are notorious for claiming the lives of far more explorers than all of their bizarre cousins combined, though an official count would be impossible as rarely anything but blackened soot remains. Vaguely humanoid in that they have arms and upright bodies and sometimes even wield weapons, incredibly alien in that they hover and bob over the empty space where their middle torso tapers away, the legless, faceless, arguably mindless elementals wander aimlessly throughout the outskirts of Wintergrasp.

Located near the center of the continent Northrend, Wintergrasp serves as a stronghold for whichever faction possesses it, though it changes hands from time to time, always by force. The Alliance and Horde are constantly warring over this particular spot, if not for the tactical advantage, then for the fact that the land there is dotted with precious ore, uncovered from the depths when the great lake that once covered the vast area receded.

The blood of nearly every race imaginable has soaked the ground of this land.

The main fortress is immense, towering over the walled-in courtyards, its peaked roof rising so far into the sky that even on all but the clearest days it disappears into the clouds. It is a clear day. The sun shines from directly overhead, the main fortress dazzling as the light is reflected by thousands upon thousands of metallic inlays and ornament, the structure eye-achingly bright. From the courtyard below, the roof is inaccessible to the eyes, the sun far too bright and unforgiving to the gaze. Something is perched on the roof.

Fyve watches.

The troll with the over-sized tusks and markedly ugly face shades his deep-set, beady eyes to scan the land below. Every few minutes, he turns his head away, covering his eyes, ears seeking out the slightest sound as he waits for the negative images to leave his vision. He is naturally paranoid, though in this case his caution is warranted. The keep is much coveted for its valuable assets, both by the Horde, who currently control it, and by the Alliance who doubtlessly plot to seize it for their own.

Fyve rubs his eyes and listens carefully. He hates having his eyes closed unless he is in the dark, and sometimes even then. He hates blinking for too long. Sometimes he hates blinking even then. But it's necessary that he give his eyes a rest, lest he be completely blinded, snow-dazzled, if and when someone decides to attack him. Even the skies are not safe. Opening his dark red eyes, previously dilated pupils shrinking instantly at the brightness, he shields his brutish, hairless brow to scan the space around him. No gryphons. No air-mounted invaders hell-bent on the seizure of the keep and the destruction of its inhabitants. The sky is clear. He resumes his watch over the ground below.

Shiny things and power are possibly the most seductive interests for the troll. He collects things that sparkle, building and rearranging primitive shrines in the darkest places, burying coins and all matter of jewelry, broken weapon blades and shards of glass. He likes to own things, NEEDS to own things. His massive collection might fill the fortress itself, a demented menagerie that even includes rocks, dried out animal tails and feet, skulls – some painted. He has severed thumbs and ears acquired in battle. He even has a collection of dwarven shoes, buried near one of the caves that dot the shoreline around the far eastern coast of Dragonblight, though he can't remember precisely which cave. But his favorite of all the things he takes are the shiny things. The shinier the better, he believes. Wintergrasp Fortress is so appealing in its shininess and power (power being another of his obsessive fascinations) that he scarcely notices that it isn't little enough to fit in his hands. Fyve's favorite shiny things are often small ones.

He is balanced on the balls of his bare, two-toed feet. His calloused fingers grip the edge of the roof. His long knees are splayed out to the sides, back arched and elbows jutting outward as well as he stares at the land below, resembling a horribly deformed and wingless gargoyle. The majority of his person is protected by heavy leather armor. The armor is battered, faintly blood-stained in some places, the dark bracers about his forearms and calves cracked and weathered. Fyve loves shiny things, but he doesn't like to wear them.

Behind him, perched precariously at the apex of the roof, straddling the point so that each of its feet are at a wobbly angle, sits a flying machine. It's a relatively small vehicle, built for Fyve and Fyve alone. The sides are equipped with leather saddle bags, also cracked and well-used. The blades at its top, which somehow manage to hold it aloft (most of the time, though accidents do happen), are still now. The string of dried thumbs that dangles from one side of the machine does not sway about; the morbid trophies dangling in an appropriately lifeless fashion. There is no wind.

Standing and covering his eyes again, Fyve turns and crosses the roof from front to back, shoving past the machine with his eyes still covered, causing it to rock and creak slightly. "Shhh-_shhhh_!" he shushes it, out of pure reflex. His feet stop just short of the back edge, legs braced on either side of the roof's point. His hands leave his eyes and go for his pants, unfastening them and drawing out his limp penis. He urinates off of the roof, groaning appreciatively as he watches his piss arc through the air and feeling grateful that there isn't any wind. He shakes himself off and refastens his pants, before returning to his self-imposed post.

He is a Warsong Outrider. Despite his psychotic episodes and mad drunken rantings, not to mention his vicious and sometimes violent disdain for everyone and everything, including his guild-mates, they allow the feral troll to stay in the ranks. As difficult as he is to handle, his skills in combat are beyond impressive… His grace is astonishing for his overgrown size and he has no qualms with killing. He needs no reason as to why he must kill. The warlord could point at something and say, "Go," and it will be dead before he lowers his hand. Fyve has his uses.

Torn between vehemently possessive paranoia and disappointment that there is no enemy in sight, the troll settles into a sitting position, somewhat more of a squat, his heels lifted from the roof on which he is perched. He messes with the gigantic tusks that jut out of his lower jaw, grabbing both of them and tugging downward, enjoying the strangely pleasurable pressure it causes in his face. He pulls off the creaking leather gloves and messes with his ears, attempting fruitlessly and for the thousandth time to jam a thick finger inside. His ear itches and his leg bounces up and down, flexing at the knee. When the itch is gone, he crosses his long arms and draws forth the two daggers he keeps at his lean hips. He digs one into a crack in the stone roof, digging a chink there and knowing fully well that he will have to re-sharpen the blade later. It's boring and he quickly grows tired of it. There's nothing very interesting to pull apart, kill, break or burn. The large blue troll's voice is fairly deep but has a nasal quality. He speaks from the back of his throat, though he doesn't know it. He sometimes hates speaking; the sound of his own voice annoys him. The fact that he knows that it amuses others annoys him even more, though he never would admit it. He sighs and even that has a slightly nasal tone.

He shrugs the leather strap of a small bag from his hunched shoulder and swings the pack around in front of him, after re-sheathing his weapons. With alternating glances between the bag and the ground far below, he rummages around with one hand, seeking nothing in particular. The bag is full of vials which contain various poisons. The glass tubes do not clink, as he has wrapped each in a piece of cloth and bound it with bits of twine or leather.

There are a couple rolls of bandages, soaked in a burning antiseptic medicinal concoction that is dried but is easily reactivated by water, blood or even spit. He shoves those aside; the two fingers of his hand find a rigid object, the thumb clamping down to grasp it. He draws forth his communicator, a very necessary tool that all members of his guild are required to carry. He grunts his appreciation at the small gadget as he draws it from the bag. Fyve is fascinated with all technologies. A small, tube-shaped object gets caught on his sleeve and escapes the bag, rolling off the side of the roof. The smoke bomb bounces once and flies through the air, catching the troll's indifferent glance before he returns his attention to his com.

In his left hand, he holds the com tightly. His right goes to his long, hooked and pointy nose, pinching the bridge and tugging over the large nostrils several times. He sniffs. Were his fingers small enough, he would jam one in his nostril. Wiping his fingers on his pants, though they are disappointingly clean, he sniffs again loudly before spitting off of the roof and into the courtyard far, far below.

He settles onto his belly, straddling the roof and resting his weight on his knees. His bare feet kick at the air as he adjusts his crotch so that nothing there is crushed by the roof peak. The roof still pokes into the left side of his groin but the pain is a mild annoyance and he ignores it. His head hangs over the side of the roof, propped up by the underside of both great tusks. Fyve lifts the com to his mouth and clears his throat. His mouth is dry and he wishes he had brought some water. The tin flask of whiskey in his back pocket, and the several back-up flasks in his bag would do, if not for the fact that he wishes to remain very sober for whatever battle may ensue. He hopes the Alliance will come soon. He is really thirsty.

"Ourriders," he says, before continuing in his mangled version of orcish, his speech surprisingly slow, so much that most of the sentences don't even sound like a continuous word. He pauses at certain points, but doesn't expect any of his fellow guild-mates to respond. He's merely gathering his thoughts.

"Winnergrass. I ownit…. I ganna keeped it. But is nah enough fer feel righ', full. I nee' to own more tings," to the unpracticed ear it almost sounds like he has a trollish accent. He doesn't. "I wish fer own ebrytin' but I dunna know wha ting to owned nex. If I fin' ebrying enden ownit what I shou do affer dat? Wha next?" Some of the words he pronounces differently each time he says them, his mind perhaps too lazy to struggle at forming anything but a mutilated parody of his first language.

"I dunna tink I gah hearr… Sahmtime tink I hab hearr er something if I take, own, hide stuffs… Hnnnh… Hearr is fer lub, righ? … I dunna feeled lub. Em nofer lub, buh I tink I lub ownintins. Habbin stuff fer Fybe. I tink I lub treasures." He wiggles on the roof, shifting so that the pressure is on the opposite side of his groin. His tongue sticks out as he does this. He clears his dry throat, settles down and continues speaking.

"Why nah ebryone wishfer own ebry sinnle tin? I dunna wishfer dey takeit… I dunna wishfer dey take myshit buh why dey happy? Why dey nah anry alltime, hnn?" He presses his eyes tightly shut, falling silent while he relieves his eyes, ears listening carefully.

He licks his lips, his right hand releasing the edge of the roof to grab his left tusk and squeeze rhythmically. "Wha makeya so fuckin' happy alltime? I own ebrytin," he corrects himself, "_mosly_ ebrytin. Why I em da anry one, hnn? Why I em alway pissoffed?" He runs his tongue in a circle, pressing against the inside of his top lift, sliding over, down, beneath the bottom lip. Tusks point upward and tilt sideways as he quickly scans the sky with one crimson eye before settling to stare again at the ground. A quick burp escapes him and he looks briefly surprised before his face settles back into its angry-looking resting state.

Eyes constantly in motion, sweeping from the east to the west, farther toward the distant south and then back to the area just outside of the keep walls, pausing every so often to squint at faraway movement that always turns out to be a wandering elemental, he lifts the com closer to his mouth, draping his right forearm awkwardly over his own tusk.

"Ebryone bedder den me. I knowit," his voice has gone lower, conspiratory, "I ganna own ebrytin'… wou' make me bedder'n all ob ya. I hate ya. Ya laugh at me. Alway wid, '_Ya stupid, ya aneemal, ya fuckin' mushmout_'… I own ebrytin' enden ya gib me respecks… honerrs. No more makefun, ya fucks." He sniffs, not from emotion but because he still has a booger or a loose hair tickling the inside of one nostril. His legs straighten out, both toes of each foot thumping the roof, but he lifts them again because it makes the roof poke him harder.

"Woman wou' wanted me, I tink," he nods, his head bobbing up and down before he inadvertently whacks the bottom of his tusks on the roof and winces. "Shitfuck… bitchdog," he swears, his eyes threatening to water from the resonating discomfort in his face, his teeth bared angrily. He waits for the ringing in his ears to recede and it does. He keeps his voice low, tinged with self-conscious discomfort. "I canna stan' fuckin' huss." The word, -huss- sounding like a hiss. He hears that and is satisfied that he sounds like a snake. 'I a snake', he things.

"Fuckin' huss alway wishfer touch… take gol'. Smell like perfumes. Is nassy. Smell like sahmtiness I dunna know whaddis… filty, nassy. I dunna wish to knowit dat smell. Huss lie… alway dey lie. Dey say ya handsun… secky," he shudders at the word, "Em nofer fuckin' seck! Dey say ya so smarr, so bigtall wid nice big tuss on face. Den ya say, 'ya canna hab my fuckin' gol', en dey tell troot. Tellya ugly, tuss toobig en look stupid, mushmout, nah smarr, canna talk good. Canna pronoun dyer own fuckin' name. Dey say ya wishfer do seck on men." He growls deep in his chest.

"I wishfer woman is nah huss. Small one, priddy. I gibber gols, brin' foods… necklits en shit fer wear… I tink. I dunna knowif I wished fer womahn… Ony wishfer nnnh… chancefer hab. I dunna tink I wou takeit. Woman is too… Emnofer womans." He quickly adds, "Emnofer men." He sniffs unproductively, swallows his spit. When he opens his dry mouth there is a quiet smacking sound as his tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth.

"I wish ebryone to stop laughat me. Pissmeoff. I dunna wish it ebryone gib me disrespecks. Fybe a mushmout, I knowit. Ya gib me harr time… I wish to stick my tuss in yer troat. Drin' yer bloods. Cutoff head, maybe." He sighs quietly, "I dunna wan' woman. Is stupid. Emnofer frien'. Fybe is nah yer fuckin' frien…"

His eyes pause in their back-and-forth motion and return to a spot far south. They narrow. A buzzing growl sounds in his throat and he feels his hackles literally rising, his toes flexing. The muscles in his neck stand out as he lifts himself on his elbows to get a better look. The movement he sees is not that of the Elementals. The figures are approaching at a steady pace.

Without looking down, he flicks the side of the com with his thumb. It turns on. "Ourrider. Allians attackin' Winnergrass!" Having made his announcement, he slides his thumb back down, turning it back off before anyone can respond and piss him off.

Dropping the com into his bag, he shoulders it quickly and struggles to his feet, climbs astride the rickety flying machine. It is time for battle.

* * *

Fyve resides on the Moon Guard rp server of World of Warcraft. The username "Fyve" was taken when I transferred, and so he goes by "Fybe", since that is how he pronounces it anyway. "Is Fybe... like da nummer."

Hit me up for random rp sometime, but no children and please no "lolwutters" in-character. Don't ask Fybe about Chuck Norris, because he definitely hasn't heard of him (though he's definitely earned Chuck's ire, I'm sure. He fucks with everyone, after all). I don't own Warcraft. I DO own Fyve/Fybe so please don't use him in your stories unless it's based on an in-game roleplay and I get to read it before you post it. Fyve is important to me. I never use others' characters without prior notice and permission.

Hope you enjoyed the short. The idea popped into my head late last night/this morning and I have ideas for several others. I'm not sure if I'll be posting them as chapters, since they aren't in any particular order of chronology.

**PLEASE READ THIS **before you comment on my use of "coms" in this story. The goblins and dwarves have made many advances in technology, some of them utilizing the magic inherent to Azeroth, others being more akin to Earth-technology. **Brann Bronzebeard** uses a communicator that not only transmits his voice, but also his IMAGE. There's a quest chain in Northrend where you use this contraption to contact him several times.

The guild I am a member of, The Warsong Outriders, happens to use radio communicators for rp purposes. It's better than talking into "enchanted hearthstones," in my opinion. I've had someone argue that there are no radio towers in Azeroth. Fair enough, let us just assume the Outriders' coms are fueled by hate and powered by gnome toes, that they steal the magic of "the light" and were obtained through goblins who made a pact with the Burning Legion. Roffle roffle!

Keep gaming!

~ Wil


	2. Chapter 2

Much of his time there is spent very drunk, rolling about and crawling on the floor like an animal and the basement is typically filthy with dust, so it's quite the coincidence that the name of the inn is the Filthy Animal. At least, he thinks so. When the thought crosses his drunken mind he peels his lips back hideously far and snorts laughter, a fine mist of spit spraying from between his long, curved tusks. He wipes some drool from his chin and looks at the wrinkled sleeve of the dark navy button-down shirt he is wearing. The sight of his saliva on the blue sleeve makes him laugh again and he grabs the sleeve's button between his front teeth, yanks it free of its stitching; he spits it into the air. There is a ripping sound as his arm catches on one tusk. He mutters an unintelligible string of curses as he tears the fabric free.

He is on his back, staring up at the dry, dirty floorboards of the inn-slash-bar overhead. The stone floor of the cellar is cool and comfortable and he thinks of taking his shirt off, but dismisses it as too much trouble. His breath reeks of alcohol, as does his entire body. His sweat is mostly whiskey, but he doesn't notice. He can't smell it anymore, can't taste the burning liquid as he lifts the dented tin flask to his mouth. His tusk manages to get in the way yet again – it does that often - and the scant remains of the flask dump onto his chest, a very little of it ever meeting his lips. His hairless brow pulls down, eyes narrowing, wrinkles forming on the bridge of his nose. The angry look quickly passes and he is laughing again, giggling up at the ceiling as he lets his left hand fall back to the floor, the flask bouncing away with several hollow metallic clangs before coming to rest against the wooden brace that holds up one of many huge kegs.

His back is naturally hunched, the thick neck curving forward from the spine and the shoulders held high… It is not a form conducive to lying on one's back. To make up for this, he has removed his cloak, wrapped his leather supply pack inside of it, and uses it now as a pillow. One side of the cloak will be gray with filth when he finally rises. He doesn't care.

His knees are bent, legs spread apart, big two-toed feet facing outward. Well, three-and-a-half toes in total. The fourth one had a bit of an accident, but it's healed over and growing back quite nicely. Fyve's digits tend to have a lot of accidents. His heels dig into the floor, the square-trimmed dewclaws at the back of his feet dragging on the stone and gathering dirt beneath them, though he doesn't notice and wouldn't care about that either.

Right now, he is beyond caring. He's in a rare state; neither being afraid, enraged, nor embarrassed… It is bliss. Being conscious is not torture, for once. He is smiling. It's probably good that nobody is there to see it, because the sight is a touch disturbing. The only thing scarier than a pissed off monster is an amused one.

"Monser," he considers himself to be one. He claims to be many things; dragon, orc, snake; he even once claimed to be an elf; anything but a troll. He hates being called a troll because he doesn't look like one. He is too tall, his tusks far too long. He mangles the orcish language worse than any troll in the world and he can't even speak Zandalari, barely understands it at all. If he were a troll, he'd be a pathetic specimen. He isn't a troll, he's a monster. "I a monser," he snorts, slapping a hand over his bloodshot eyes as his laughter is renewed. He is a monster, which is hilarious, but also a great thing, because he is the most powerful, awesome and talented monster in the world. There is no monster quite like Fyve. "Fybe da monser… ob power… Shtnnnnq!" He snorts loudly, moving the hand that covers his eyes to clamp it instead over his mouth. His chest shakes with laughter and his toes flex, even the half-grown one.

He has already emptied his bladder into a bucket in the corner, or he'd piss in his pants laughing right now. The innkeeper and cook both know Fyve and they know when he's down here. He more than pays for any damage he causes, using his seemingly-endless flow of gold. Plus they pity him in a detached way, like a horse-trampled dog that isn't quite dead. "Boy that's rough. Someone should put it out of its misery." Too bad gold can't buy happiness, looks or intelligence. He knows they pity him, and it pisses him off. At least they give him a bucket to piss in. "Buqqet!" He waves an arm in the air, "Fuqqet." Fuck it.

The sound of his own voice makes him want to laugh again, guffaw until he pukes, but the puke part is a little close for comfort, so he digs his sharp canines into his fist and focuses on the ceiling. Well, he stares at the ceiling… He stares in the –direction- of the ceiling. Focus is not something his eyes are capable of at the moment. Fuck it. "Fmmpnt."

His words are even less intelligible with his fist in his mouth. He breathes through his nose loudly. A tiny spider, tan and spindly and smaller than the pupil of the troll's eye, descends from overhead on a gossamer strand. It lands on his broad forehead and scuttles over the thick, indigo-blue dreadlocks that fan out above the troll's head before hurrying away across the floor. He doesn't notice.

Disengaging his teeth from his fist, he lets it slap back onto the floor, palm up to match the opposite hand. He's scratched his lip with one claw. They grow square at the base, in a fashion similar to human, gnome, dwarf or elf fingernails, but are much thicker and grow to a point. He trims them to look like fingernails, but he's been lax with it. Something inside of his mind registers the taste of his own blood, but vaguely. His pupils shrink to pinpoints but dilate quickly and that is the extent of his carnivorous (slightly cannibalistic) reaction. Drink-numb lips don't feel pain. It will likely be healed over by the time he can feel anything again. Trolls heal fast.

He takes a deep breath, the creepy and rare smile still softening his brutish features. Chest expanding mightily, he lets the air out in a contented sigh. This is the way to be. Well, except for the vague waves of nausea but those are scant enough to be ignored. He'll suffer for it later; he can care about it then, not now. Now is not for worry.

Quiet, except for his drunken sounds, the cellar is devoid of all other sentient life. His dog has gone missing. Stinky, he's named it. It isn't really his dog. He hates all animals, "Cannn fuqqin stan no aneemuhzzzz'," a slurring mumble, followed closely by a quiet giggle. He found it. He can't remember right now how that happened, but he can't remember much beside his own self-given name. He adamantly denies that he keeps any pet, especially a stinky little fat ugly dog with bugged out eyes and a face so flat that it snorts when it breaths. Stinky is not his dog. Animals are disgusting. They shit; make noise, smell bad and demand things. He refuses to ride any mount that isn't mechanical. If he loves anything it's his mechanohog; the great two-wheeled, noisy monstrosity he built with his own hands. He's trained it not to follow him when anyone is around; the dog, that is, not the bike.

Maybe Stinky will come back. Maybe he won't. It doesn't concern him at the moment. He stares at the ceiling.

Hands, blue, each with two clawed fingers and a likewise clawed thumb, slowly draw inward toward his narrow hips; the downward arc of a snow-angel. It's a dust angel. He's out of his armor, wearing instead a long-sleeved navy shirt, the color similar to but not the same as his thick indigo dreadlocks.

Blue hands, grey on the backs with the dust that also clings to the dark blue sleeves, wander to his belt and fidget with the handles of the two ever-present daggers. He doesn't take those off for anything. He sleeps with them. He retains the belt with nothing else on when he bathes. His race has no propensity for water, but he doesn't know that. He likes to swim. He has to replace his weapons often. Both hands grab the thin black fabric of his pants, wrinkling them at the thigh and stretching them to the sides, smoothing them back down before returning to the dagger hilts.

His eyes roll aimlessly about, though he is still conscious. At times they appear to be attempting to move independently of each other, though they are not successful. He burps with his mouth shut, blows out his cheeks and snorts. The back of his right wrist comes up to rub against his dry eyes, lids squeezed tightly shut. The hand rejoins its partner in fumbling the blade handles at his hips mindlessly. There is now a streak of dirt across his eyes, like a crooked raccoon mask though it continues partially down his right cheek. He clears his throat and swallows before letting his jaw relax, his mouth partially open. Normally, despite his feral aspect and the gruesome manner of his "work", the Fyve is compulsively clean, opting to bathe upwards of three times a day, when the option is there. Despite his currently squalid condition, he smiles goofily as he lies on the dirty floor.

His shirt has bunched up in the back. The translucent white fuzz that covers most of him, giving him a silky, velvety texture, is exposed to the floor and attracts yet more smut. A yawn interrupts his dumb grin, lips peeling back even further, massive canines exposed, "Oooaaaaugh." The sound is funny and he begins to laugh again.

Arms stretch wide and fists clench as he yawns and laughs. His hand hits something and he grabs for it, dropping it several times and lazily refusing to rise and properly retrieve it. He's not sure he COULD rise if he needed to. He doesn't care.

Squinting, holding the small, rigid object between his tusks and near his eyes, he pulls it further back until he can focus enough to recognize it. "… oh." He snorts and laughs again, bringing the com up to his thin lips, his broad, mean mouth.

His laughter is punctuated by ridiculous sounds, "Ha ha harragh… snnnk," he snorts again. "Ooohoohoohaaahaa," he tries to catch his breath so that he can speak into the device. "Ouuurinners, snnnk! Goohoohoohoo, Hhhnnt!" a strange squeak escapes him. He's drooling again but he doesn't notice. "Ouriiiners hahahai gah sahmnin a tell…" he pauses for dramatic effect, the effort of holding in his laughter bringing forth an explosion of thick guffaws, the sentence broken by sounds, some of them akin to those of a dying animal. "Sahmtin ta tell yaha! Fybe dinna leeearned ta, snnk! Hahaha! … Dinna learned ta tahalk HAHAHA… dinna eben learn talk unnil… bery hehehe recenly. Mayme," he coughs and sputters giggles, "Mahaybe two, tree year! AAAAAHAHAHAHAHAAA!"

He kicks his legs and flails his arms in a moronic fit of amusement at his own words. The meaning that holds such gravity for him sounding, at the moment, like the best joke he's ever heard. He brings the com to his drooling mouth and swallows, clears his throat noisily, prepares to say more.

His laughter stops abruptly. The displaced merriment on his features vanishes, replaced by a look of horror and confusion. He whines in the back of his throat, and the sound is indistinguishable from the pitiful sound of a frightened dog. The left hand contains the com. The right leaps from the floor to smack loudly over his eyes. His mouth feels very dry.

The sound comes again, "What was that, Fyve?" It's a horrible sound. It's an amused sound.

The com was turned on. His eyes roll beneath their lids and beneath his hand. He lets out a disgusted growl as his left thumb flicks the switch on the side of the gadget. Now it's really off.

With a frustrated grunt, he throws it away from him, hands remaining over his eyes. He rolls onto his side, reaching beneath himself and yanking out the dagger whose hilt presses into his hip. He tosses that, too, though not as far. Suddenly he feels quite ill.

* * *

I wasn't sure if I should make these "Com Confessions" into a story with individual chapters, since I don't know when they will end… I mean, I guess when Fyve learns not to do that (not gonna happen) or when I run out of ideas/ get bored with it (definitely possible). Also, they aren't necessarily meant to be read in any particular order. I don't know the chronology of these events. Fyve can't remember either. We're a sorry pair.

Before you rip me a new one over the "com" technology, read the bottom of the first Com Confessions for an explanation as to why I personally don't think it's even a remote stretch of the WoW lore. Erm… it's probably a stretch of the original Warcraft lore, but fuck, so is WoW. xD

Love you all for reading. Love you better for commenting.

Yoah Pal,

~Wil


End file.
